Combat Ops

Ramirez and I got a lift into town, and dressed like locals with the shemaghs covering our heads and faces, we had the driver let us off about a block from the house. Ramirez would keep in radio contact with our driver.

I wouldn’t have remembered the house if I didn’t spot the young girl standing near the front door. She took one look at me, gaped, then ran back into the house, slamming the door after her. Ramirez looked at me, and we shifted forward. I didn’t have to knock. The guy who’d helped me capture the Taliban thug emerged. I lowered my shemagh, and he didn’t look happy to see me. “Hello again.”

“Hello.”

I proffered my hand. “My name is Scott. And this is Joe.”

He sighed and begrudgingly took the hand. “I am Babrak Shilmani.” He shook hands with Ramirez as well.

“Do you have a moment to talk?”

He glanced around the street, then lifted his chin and gestured that we go into his house.

The table I’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by large colorful cushions spread across newly unfurled carpets. I’d learned during my first tour in the country that Afghans ate on the floor and that the cushions were called toshak and that the thin mat in the center was a disterkahn.

“We didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner,” I said.

“Please sit. You are our guests.” He spoke rapidly in Pashto, calling out to the rest of his family down the hall.

I knew that hospitality was very important in the Afghan code of honor. They routinely prepared the best possible food for their guests, even if the rest of the family did without.

As his family entered from the hall, heads lowered shyly, Shilmani raised a palm. “This is my wife, Panra; my daughter, Hila; and my son, Hewad.”

They returned nervous grins, and then the mother and daughter hustled off, while the boy came to us and offered to take our shemaghs and showed us where to sit on the floor. Then he ran off and returned with a special bowl and jug called a haftawa-wa-lagan.

“You don’t have to feed us,” I told Shilmani, realizing that the boy had brought the bowl to help us wash our hands and prepare for the meal.

“I insist.”

I glanced over at Ramirez. “Only use your right hand. Remember?”

“Gotcha, boss.”

“You’ve been here before,” said Shilmani. “I mean Afghanistan.”

I nodded. “I love the tea.”

“Excellent.”

“Will you tell me now how you learned English?”

He sighed. “I used to work for your military as a translator, but it got too dangerous, so I gave it up.”

Ramirez gave me a look. Perhaps we were wasting our time and had received the no already…

“They taught you?”

“Yes, a special school. I was young and somewhat foolish. And I volunteered. But when Hila was born, I decided to leave.”

“They threatened you?”

“You mean the Taliban?”

I nodded.

“Of course. If you help the Americans, you suffer the consequences.”

“You’re taking a pretty big risk right now,” I pointed out.

“Not really. Besides, I owe you.”

“For what? You helped me capture that man.”

“And you helped me get him out of my house. I was afraid for my wife and daughter. In most cases it is forbidden for a woman to be in the presence of a man who is not related to her — but I am more liberal than that.”

“Glad to hear it.”

As if on cue, the wife and daughter entered and provided all of us with tea. I took a long pull on my cup and relished the flavor, which somehow tasted like pistachios.

“So, Scott, what do you do for the Army?”

“I take care of problems.”

“But you cannot do it alone. You want my help.”

“I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone here. But my job would be easier, and fewer innocent people would get hurt, if I could get some help.”

“What do you need?”

“Not what. Who.”

Shilmani took a deep breath and stroked his thin beard. “You’ve come for Zahed.”

I smiled. “Why not?”

“Because that’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” said Ramirez.

“He has too many friends, even American friends, and too many connections. He has too many assets for you to ever get close. They always know when you’re coming. And they’re always prepared. They have eyes on your base every hour of every day. You cannot leave without them knowing about it.”

“So they know I’m here.”

“Yes, they do.”

“And I’ve already put you in danger?”

“No, because I work for Mirab Mir Burki, who is the master of water distribution here in Zhari.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Burki knows you Americans want to dig a new well. He wants that well, and he’s already negotiated with Zahed over rights to the water and the profits. We’re just waiting for you to build it. Any contact I have with Americans is part of our water negotiations — so as you might say, I have a good cover.”

“What is it you want?”

“What all men want. Money. Safety for my family. A better life.” Shilmani finished his tea, then topped off our cups and refilled his own.

“You want to see Zahed captured?”

“He’s not a good influence here — despite what others may say. He does not break promises, but when he gives you something, the price is always very steep.”

“Kundi seems to like him.”

“That old man is a fool, and Zahed would put a knife in his back. There is no loyalty there.”

“Would you go over to Sangsar and work for us?”

Shilmani’s gaze turned incredulous. “No. Of course not.”

“But you said you wanted money. I can work out an arrangement that would be very good for you — and your family.”

“I am no good to my family if I’m dead.”

“We can protect you.”

“You’re not a good liar, Scott.”

We finished the tea, and Shilmani’s wife and daughter served rice and an onion-based quorma or stew, along with chutneys, pickles, and naan — an unleavened bread baked in a clay oven. The food was delicious, and the wife continued urging us to eat more.

Afterward, while his family retreated to the back of the house, Shilmani wiped his mouth, then stared hard at me. “You have to remember something, Scott. After all of you are gone, we are left to pick up the pieces. We’re just trying to do the best we can for ourselves.”

I stood. “I know that. Thanks for the meal. If you want to give me some information about Zahed, I’ll pay for